


Execution

by cumbertwat



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood and Gore, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Dubious Consent, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Oral Sex, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers, Recovering!Bucky, Size Difference, Size Kink, Stockholm Syndrome, Touch-Starved, Violence, Virgin Steve Rogers, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, except not really, feisty!steve, multilingual!bucky, shrinkyclinks, the asset is fucking dangerous and unstable and steve rogers does not give two shits
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-07-19 01:00:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7338208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cumbertwat/pseuds/cumbertwat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The asset has gone rogue, escaping the main Hydra facility he's kept in and fighting his way out for answers. He's not Bucky Barnes, but he's not the Winter Soldier. He is the asset – a pathway for only death and chaos – and in order to get answers, he needs to kill. The Hydra agents out to imprison him again are everywhere, and he'll take them out without a second thought. </p><p>Steve Rogers works at a shithole of a gas station during the commonly loathed graveyard shift. During what he thinks is a normal robbery, the Asset takes him hostage wrongly believing he's an agent with answers. Steve doesn't expect to get laced into an entire reality of assassins and terrorist organizations, and despite being a skinny five foot nothing of a guy, he knows just one thing that could save his life – protect Bucky Barnes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Steve can't even _handle_ the shithole gas station he works at. The majority of the time his customers are truckers who haven't showered in days or rude people asking for directions – and if sitting in a horribly ventilated store dealing with assholes at three A.M isn't bad enough, the strong scent of gas that wafts into the store every so often is. Even if Steve were to change his graveyard shift so he wasn't always up at unholy hours, the environment is toxic enough for his shitty health.  
  
However, being able to afford the next month's rent is something unfamiliar to Steve, so although he loathes standing at a counter from ten till six in the morning, it's what pays the bills. His manager is a complete dick of a guy, Brock _something_ (Steve doesn't stick around him enough to find out), and doesn't even bother with installing security precautions in the event of a robbery or hold-up.  
  
“Guess you'll have to take 'em on yourself, eh, Stevie?” Brock would croon, wrapping an arm around Steve's shoulders and squeezing like they've been best buddies since birth. Except Steve would always shrug him off and give him his best patented glare, not bothering to report Brock for being a generally shitty manager - because he really couldn't give less of a damn about the job.  
  
And so there he sits – on a shitty fold-out chair behind the counter of the shitty gas station, just waiting for _something_ to do, when he hears the bell ring, signalizing a customer entering from the other end of the store. The view of the door is blocked from the counter by shelves, something Steve had raised concerns about to Brock, but he'd be damned if anything _productive_ got done around this place.  
  
Steve brings himself to his feet anyway, hears his bones and joints crack in protest, and sneaks a look at the clock on the wall behind him. _3:27._ He should probably take a small lunch break soon, maybe get started on the new commission he's been vying to work on – _fifty_ dollars for it – and finally get to eat the chicken sandwich he'd saved for himself.  
  
He takes a look at the customer that just walked in, making their way around the shelves and finding the small section dedicated to candy and chocolate, and finds that it's a guy. Nothing particularly strikes his interest – hell, he gets all sorts of interesting characters come in at weird hours of the night, but this guy seems, well, average. The guy's wearing about three layers of jackets, a baseball cap, and some kind of mask concealing his nose and mouth, but otherwise, his dark hair shields his eyes and his hands remain in the pockets of his coat.  
  
Steve doesn't take his eyes off the guy, the air in the stuffy store is different, and it's not because the scent of gas wafted in again upon the guy's arrival. Steve's lungs take this realization as a chance to seize up, and so he coughs a bit roughly into his arm.  
  
This grabs the attention of the guy - whose eyes slide over to Steve's form analytically - before he sticks his hand out to grab a simple granola bar and stalks towards the counter without hesitation. Steve straightens up at this, tries to stop the raging coughing fit he can feel his body mustering up, and gives the guy what he hopes is a hearty grin.  
  
“Hi,” he says.  
  
The guy's eyebrows furrow like he's never been greeted in his life. He doesn't reply – Steve wonders if he's going to pull down the fabric covering his mouth to speak, but he doesn't, and Steve almost sighs. It's difficult customers like this that make his nights here so irritable.  
  
Nevertheless, Steve holds his hand out for the granola bar, assuming the guy isn't going to place it on the counter anytime soon. Maybe he's a foreigner. He decides he _does_ look pretty confused, so he doesn't immediately rule the assumption out.  
  
“That all?” Steve tips his head at the granola bar, wiggling his fingers slightly at it. At this point, he's assuming the guy doesn't speak basic English and is getting by on gestures alone.  
  
The Guy looks at Steve's outreached hand like it's alien to him.  
  
Steve adjusts himself, shifting over to his other foot and trying not to fidget.  
  
Finally, the guy slowly places the granola bar in Steve's hand, not meeting Steve's eyes as he does so. Except his eyes dart all around Steve, at the register behind the counter, at the clock on the wall, at the emergency fire exit further towards the left, as if he were analyzing everything, processing it the way Steve knows some veterans do. So maybe the guy served.  
  
Steve feels bad for ruling the guy out as just another difficult customer. He rings up the granola bar and puts it back on the counter without a second thought. “Three ninety,” He turns around mindlessly to find the little bags they sometimes use for smaller items, and instantly freezes when he hears the cock of a gun.  
  
_Godfuckingdamnit_ , is the first thing that comes to his mind. _Fuck you Brock, you fucking asshole._  
  
He raises his arms up in surrender anyway, without turning around. Robberies are known to happen during gas station graveyard shifts, they've just never had it happen here, nevermind to _him_. He doesn't even know what a potential robber would see in a shitty gas station like this. Other than it being an easy target, it's not exactly the fanciest. And _him_?  
  
He's just a skinny fuckin' twenty-two-year-old kid, barely able to keep himself alive – _nobody_ would see him as a threat, so the fact a gun is pointed at the back of his head is terrifying in itself. Yeah, he's been dozens of fist fights over morality and righteousness, but none of them called for a weapon, and Steve always assumed it was because although he was a good fighter, he wasn't _that_ much of a threat. He could hold his own and leave a few good bruises here and there, but lethal? No.  
  
The guy still isn't saying anything, even after Steve stands there in surrender for a solid thirty seconds. He _counts_. So, slowly, he turns back around to face The Guy with a shiny black gun pointed right at his forehead, aimed with precise calculation. Still, he says nothing, keeps his eyes trained on something behind Steve's head, though his hand on the gun never wavers.  
  
“Just,” Steve's voice cuts off short as soon as he tries to speak, so he swallows and tries again, nodding his head towards the money in the register. “Just- Just take it. It's fine, it'll be off the records, I'll pay for it my fucking self, just-”  
  
The Guy's head tips to the side just an inch, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. He speaks.  
  
“They sent you.”  
  
His voice is gravelly and broken, as if from disuse, and muffled behind his mask. Steve is taken aback for a moment and begins to lower his hands before the offending gun jerks at him and he puts them back in the air.  
  
Steve can feel his heart pounding through his throat, constricting tight around his tongue and making it hard to breathe. He can't tell whether it's the beginning onslaught of an asthma or panic attack. Either way, he's absolutely fucked.  
  
“What? Who- _nobody_ sent me, I'm just-” His breath cuts short again and he focuses on getting his goddamn lungs to work, and stopping his heart from clambering up his throat and jumping out onto the counter in front of both them. “I just _work_ here, I swear.”  
  
Steve rips his eyes away from the barrel of the gun to look at the guy's face – if he can at least get the details of his profile down, maybe he'll have accomplished something and can rub it in Brock's douchebag face that they need some actual security measures here. _If_ he doesn't get his brains blown out, though he's sure it's just a scare tactic, right?  
  
The guy's eyes finally meet Steve's, as if preparing for the final blow, and Steve is nearly swept over with an onslaught of cold and dark gray – icy eyes that deliver both pain and confusion, though somehow still completely _sure_.  
  
His fingers twitch on the trigger and Steve fucking _panics_. “Wait- _Wait_ ,” He scrambles for something, anything, and he never knew how hard it was to think with your arms in the air for so long until now. “I'll give you whatever you want, man. Money? I can- _Whatever_ you want.” He probably – definitely – sounds pathetic, and he would be ashamed looking back on this that he hadn't tried harder to fight, but Hell, Steve isn't sure if he's _going_ to look back on this.  
  
The guy's speculating gaze hits Steve's face again, rakes over his clothes and settles on his eyes once again. His voice breaks through the air, less gruff than before but more assertive. “Answers.”  
  
“Yes- Of course, _answers_ , whatever you want-” Steve rambles mindlessly, fingers twitching in the air. “Just- okay, yes, just... put the gun _down_.”  
  
Except The Guy doesn't get the chance to put the gun down, or even make the decision to, because both of their heads snap towards the station outside when an innocent enough looking truck pulls up beside a pump, tires squealing as it stops. Steve's eyes fucking brighten at this – a witness, or help, just _somebody else_ that's here is enough for him to have hope yet. The Guy probably sees this, because his gaze meets Steve's again, very icily and even a bit angry. His eyes flicker towards the truck, then back to Steve, and he says something harshly to himself in a language Steve doesn't understand.  
  
And before Steve can process it enough to fight back, before he can look beyond the screaming ache of his arms or can so much as call out for help from inside, the guy moves in an experienced blur of action before the butt of the gun is whacked into the side of his jaw, effectively knocking him out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is happening. I'm still trying to figure out a posting schedule so I'm not sure when the next chapter will be up, but I'm pumped for this, so expect it very soon my friends.


	2. Chapter 2

When Steve comes to, a searing pain shoots across the left side of his jaw. He groans and goes to rub his blurry eyes, only for the _chink_ of the metal stopping his left wrist to wake him up fully. Steve looks down at his wrist through the darkness of whatever room he's in – trying not to sneeze or cough from the dust particles lingering in the musky air – and finds that it's cuffed.

Steve twists his sore body around, his head coming into contact with the leg of a metal bed frame. He finds it with his right hand in the dark, and as his eyes adjust he realizes he's been handcuffed to it. He curses.

He lays his back against the frame and once again focuses on the dusty room around him. It doesn't seem so dark now that his eyes are adjusting to it, and when he looks to the right he can almost see the daylight shining through the closed slits of thick and very dirty blinds. The walls, in the darkness of the room, look stained and browning, and Steve doesn't want to _know_ what the floor he's sitting on is like.   
  
Steve adjusts himself to find a comfier position – which is hard being handcuffed to a bedpost, but he makes it happen. The panic hasn't fully settled in yet, though he knows it will. He's pretty sure he got taken fucking _hostage_.  
  
The true darkness of the situation sinks in finally when his eyes land on a crumpled heap on the ground more than a meter away from him. Steve registers the clothes as being jeans and a dirty white t-shirt that somehow looks even filthier in the dark. It isn't until he makes out the dark liquid seeping out from underneath the clothes that he realizes with a hard gasp... it's a dead _body.  
  
_ He curses. And curses again. Soon enough, a string of profanities stream from Steve's mouth as he pulls at the stupid metal binding him to the bed in a craze. There's a 99.9% chance he's going to be the next dead body on the ground, and he's really hoping it's not anytime soon, because he's just a fucking _guy_. He's just some guy that got caught up in an innocent robbery, only to find out that it _wasn't_ an innocent one, because the guy didn't want money but rather his _life_.   
  
And here he is, pulling with all his might at a metal bedpost, knowing that Shelley – who usually came to take over the store at six A.M – would've found him missing, and how the _fuck_ is he supposed to explain to Brock that he got kidnapped. He knows those hours missed would be taken out of his pay, and-  
  
 _Fuck_. Freaking out over his shitty gas station job is the only _normal_ concept Steve can grasp at the moment, which is probably why he's doing it. He should be freaking out over the dead fucking body right before him, or maybe the-  
  
Steve freezes, his breath hitching in his throat.  
  
Maybe the shadowed figure resting in the battered armchair to his left, watching him as he absolutely melts down.   
  
There's a beat of silence until the black-clad figure stands up silently – completely lithely – acknowledging that they know Steve has noticed them. His heart is pounding against his ribcage, it feels, and he can barely get out a coherent thought. It takes two long steps - placed precisely and calculatingly, like a predator stalking it's prey – for the figure to reach Steve until he's eye-to-thigh with them.   
  
The person kneels down, and a stripe of light escaping the blinds illuminates their features. It's the guy from the gas station - of _course._ His cold gray eyes stare at Steve's cheek, where he had hit him with the butt of his gun, and Steve notices his stubbled jaw clench.   
  
“ _Kto ty_?” The guy speaks for the first time, and his voice is not what Steve expected. It's rough and haggard, like before, but it's not English – his tongue is laced with a thick accent that brings his tone lower than Steve remembers it.   
  
Steve opens his mouth to say something, but the guy makes a move to remove the black gloves concealing his hands. He does it slowly as if trying to incite something from Steve, but doesn't get a response until he lets his left glove fall to the floor and the shiny glint of his fingers makes Steve's breath catch.   
  
He can feel the guy's eyes boring into his face, challenging him. His sharp voice cuts through the thick air again. “ _Ty Hydra_?”   
  
“I-I don't,” Steve swallows hard. “I can't-”  
  
“ _Na kogo ty rabotayesh'_?” When Steve's silence fills the air, the guy finally seems to get it. “Who are you?”

  
“Who the fuck are _you_?” Steve spits back, because he's still got _some_ fight left in him, and he may as well use the rest of it up on this asshole.   
  
The guy looks back at him as if _he's_ the crazy one, or at least the one who's supposed to be giving him an explanation here. Steve doesn't understand what's so difficult about understanding a captive/captor situation. There's an underlying dark tone behind his next words, something that Steve can't quite pinpoint - “You know who I am. I am the asset.” He says it as if Steve was _supposed_ to know that.   
  
How was he _supposed_ to? The _asset_? If it's a threat, it's a pretty good one, because it sends a shiver down his back. Steve doesn't know what it means, but the tone in the guy's voice says it's important to _somebody_.  
  
Steve plunges into silence again, cuts short the randomized snarky reply he probably had on his tongue, when he realizes this is _much_ more serious than just a hostage situation. For one, if he knows anything about context clues, he can pretty much assume the guy dumped the limp male's body in the room after killing him. And two, the guy definitely _isn't_ mentally stable. Before he has time to think up something to say – a question to ask – the guy reaches into one of his back pockets, flicks a card at Steve's chest and stands up.   
  
Steve scrambles to get hold of the card in his right hand and look at it, and finds it's the ID of a scraggly looking man. His cheekbones are sharp and protruding and his eyes are sunken in. It doesn't take a genius to assume he was an obvious drug addict, and when Steve looks up at the 'asset' to question him, the asset's eyes only shift intentionally towards the body beside them. Steve's breath catches again.   
  
It's a silent threat, he realizes.  
  
The asset picks up his gloves, slides them over his metallic fingers menacingly, and looks at Steve's form again. Steve notices that he hasn't once met his eyes. “You are an agent of Hydra. I want answers,” He demands.   
  
Steve feels his heart hammering in his throat, restricting his breath, and tries to breathe in through his nose. “I'm not an agent,” He tries to speak calmly, hoping that he won't say anything to anger the asset and end up like the other guy. “I'm just- I'm just some _guy_.”  
  
“ _Ty vresh'_ ,” The asset snarls, snapping the other glove on. “I don't believe you.”  
  
He turns on his heel and leaves the room through a dark hallway, not illuminated by any source of light, leaving Steve alone.   
  
As alone as he could be with a dead body in the room.   
  
  
When the asset returns, Steve is at the tipping point from dozing off to full on snoring. Usually, his daytime spent not working is spent sleeping, which leaves him little time for a social life.  
  
Considering the plenty of fights he gets in on his days off, he doubts anybody would actually _want_ to hang out with him, but having some time off to maybe attempt a social life would be great. However, most of the time he just draws – finishing off commissions, starting new ones, trading pieces and trying to make a considerable leap in his art career.   
  
So when Steve realizes he's not dozing off in his cozy (albeit crappy) apartment, he jerks upright and tries to rub the weariness from his eyes with his free hand. There's no sunlight filtering in through the blinds anymore, and the dust in the room is less noticeable. He guesses it's the late afternoon or early evening.   
  
The smell hits him – the body still lying limp a bit away from him. It's not particularly gut-wrenching, but it's reaching an unpleasant state. Steve doesn't know how long the man has been dead, but he guesses this is where the asset's hideout is. Maybe it belonged to the man before the asset found him.   
  
The clinking of a plate being set on the floor draws Steve's attention. On it is an apple and exactly four grapes, soon followed by a glass of water.   
  
He's not sure if it's safe, but he looks up at the asset in defiance anyway.   
  
“Eat,” is all the asset says, gruffly.   
  
So Steve eats the apple, eats the grapes, and downs the water, hoping to God none of it is poisoned or is going to send him into an anaphylactic shock. When the asset doesn't move the entire time except to kneel, Steve realizes he's waiting for something.   
  
“Why did you give me food?” Steve asks curiously, though timidly. He doesn't want to set the asset off.  
  
Apparently, the asset wasn't waiting for casual conversation, because he breezes past Steve's question with an answer that seems nearly automatic. “Sufficient energy levels are key to the success of future missions.”  
  
It's completely out of the blue and Steve is taken aback.   
  
“Okay.”  
  
“You know this.”  
  
Steve swallows – again with this? “I do?”  
  
The asset's gray eyes are gazing hard at the floorboards in front of Steve.   
  
“Who are you?” Steve asks.   
  
The asset stands up, the boards beneath them not even squeaking at the movement. His gloved fingers inch towards the gun holstered at his thigh. “I told you,” He replies. “I am the asset.”  
  
Everything he does is so incredibly precise, calculated with trained eyes, that Steve can't help but be unnerved by this guy. “You mentioned that,” Steve concurs, not letting a hint of sarcasm show through the words though they sound bitter without.   
  
“You know this,” The asset repeats.  
  
This time, Steve is sure when he replies, “I don't.”  
  
The asset doesn't reply. Instead, he grips the gun and slides it out of the holster with ease from practice. The situation at hand finally falls into place in Steve's mind. His captive thinks he's some sort of agent sent by somebody, and the asset clearly sees him as a threat. And because Steve is refusing to cooperate and give him the 'answers' he was promised, the asset is preparing to take him out.   
  
Panic flows through Steve's mind, abolishing his next coherent thought. “ _Wait_ -”  
  
The asset's movements pause.   
  
“I'm not an-” Steve starts, but decides it's the wrong route to go if he doesn't want a bullet in his head. “I don't have answers,” When the asset's jaw clenches and his fingers twitch on the gun again, Steve jerks so frantically that the stressed clink of the metal handcuffs is loud, “But- But, I can... I can help you find them. If- If you want- I can help you find answers.”  
  
The asset's cold eyes flicker from the gun in his hand to the floorboard, then to Steve's form. He genuinely looks like he's weighing the cons and the pros of having Steve on his side, and honestly? Steve isn't so sure about what the fuck just came out of his mouth, either.  
  
Preferably, he'd like to go home, curl up on his shitty couch until his next shift at work, and forget this ever happened. Forget that he ever got into this situation – and he feels half in the dark about it anyway.   
  
What was this guy's motive? Nothing about Steve exactly screams 'agent'. And he's not sure he's in the everyday hostage situation, either – with all this talk about agents, a dead fucking body, a guy who calls himself 'the asset' like he's just a pawn in a bigger game... and eyes that calculate Steve's every movement, like they were trained to.  
  
He's also not so sure what the fuck he's just gotten himself into when the asset sets his jaw, slides his gun back into his holster, and stalks over to the dead body.   
  
The asset easily grabs an arm and hoists the weight of the body over his shoulder, and that's when Steve sees the man's face. It's streaked in red – hell, Steve _knows_ head wounds bleed a lot but the source bullet wound in his forehead only proves that point further. It's not a sight that he can forget easily, the pallid face and dead eyes that stare at nothing, and so Steve curls in on himself and shuts his eyes as tight as he can to get the image out of his head.   
  
He hears the asset leave the room, can only just hear the scuffing of boots against the floorboards, and still does not open his eyes.  
  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't plan for this chapter to be posted so soon, but considering how far I ahead I am in the planning and writing of this fic, I'll let you beautiful people indulge. Don't forget to let me know your thoughts! x


	3. Chapter 3

Steve wakes up in a disorientated daze and realizes that he's fallen asleep yet again. With a quick glance towards the blinds that prove to be his only indication of time passed, he notices he must have been out a while as it's no longer day.

It's the deliberately audible scuffle of boots that brings Steve attention to the asset, creeping into the room with another plate of food and a glass of water. He guesses this is routine now.  
  
Steve bites into the apple, eats the plums and downs the water in barely five minutes. Although he's really craving some shitty microwaveable dishes now that he thinks about it, he supposes the fact he's being fed at _all_ is good enough.  
  
The asset is kneeling by him again, watching him devour the little food with speculative eyes. When Steve finishes, the asset pulls out a key, and his eyes go wide. He knows it's wishful thinking to hope he was being let go, but he does anyway, and he allows the asset to grab his wrist with his gloved hands to unlock the cuffs.  
  
“What-” The asset grabs Steve's upper arm tightly, almost painfully, and it cuts off Steve's question. He jerks Steve up to a stand – Steve's joints protesting at the sudden movement – and pulls him towards the hallway outside.  
  
Steve can barely see anything in the place – the guy apparently has no need for lights, and Steve stumbles as the asset directs him through the dark apartment ominously, without a word. He's tempted to cut the silence with another question but decides against it when the asset leads him to what looks like a bathroom. It looks absolutely wrecked – with smashed tiles and cracks lining the walls and bathtub. The shower curtain looks moldy and splotchy, as well as the rest of the interior.  
  
The mirror above the simple sink is cracked and stained with all sorts of colors that Steve doesn't even _want_ to think about. However, the moonlight filters in through a small window above the bathtub – too small for even _him_ to escape through, he notes in disappointment – and gives way to enough light to see.  
  
“Go,” The asset speaks, rough and raspy like he himself had just woken up from a sleep. Part of Steve doesn't think that's likely, though.  
  
Steve stares at the bathroom he's in for another moment, the asset's hand still clamped tight around his arm, and furrows his brows. “What?”  
  
The asset's eyes linger on the cracked toilet and he nods his head towards it.  
  
_Oh_. Steve tries not to screw his nose up in distaste. Although he'd be really grateful for a piss right now, he doubts he can do it while the asset's presence is gracing his every movement. He meets the asset's eyes squarely, though the asset averts his own eyes to Steve's eyebrows. “Thanks, but I need _some_ privacy.”  
  
There's a beat of silence before the asset responds, his lips flicking downwards in a slight frown. “Privacy.”  
  
“ _Yes_ ,” Steve responds, setting his jaw. Although he knows he realistically stands no chance against the two-hundred-pound beefcake in front of him, he'd go down in a fight to protect his rights.  
  
But the asset's lips are still curved down slightly at the corners like he genuinely doesn't understand the concept. He repeats the word to Steve with a raised eyebrow. “Privacy.”  
  
“That means _leave_ or turn _around_ , pal.”  
  
The asset's grip on Steve's arm loosens slightly but not completely, like he doesn't exactly trust Steve not to go kicking his way out. Steve just slips himself out of the asset's hands and gestures for him to do something except just stand there and _watch_. He sees the asset turn his back to Steve, eyebrows still furrowed like this is the weirdest thing anyone's ever asked of him, and when Steve finishes he waits for the asset to turn back around and grab his arm again. 

He pulls Steve through the hallway and into the dark room again, except bypasses the foot of the bed completely. He throws Steve onto the cold bed by the arm, once again almost painfully, and Steve begins to freak out until the asset cuffs him to the headboard this time.  
  
The asset flashes Steve a dangerous look, like this is a _privilege_ , and then stands straight like he's about to leave. He doesn't. He stares at a space near Steve's hands, lost in thought.  
  
Steve coughs awkwardly. What the asset wants from him, he doesn't know, and he's hoping being cuffed to the headboard doesn't imply anything. He's never been good with small talk, but to avoid the awkward silence, Steve cuts through it. “What's your name?”  
  
The asset's head snaps up to search Steve's face, eyes narrowed and brows furrowed. Like he's searching for any reason to believe he can't trust Steve. “I am the a-”  
  
“No. Not that,” Steve cuts him off in a soft voice, “Your _name_.”  
  
He hasn't seen the asset look so genuinely confused before. The asset looks like he's searching his own mind for the information and it's frustratingly disheartening to watch. “I'm not anything else,” The asset finally says, but he doesn't sound particularly convincing.  
  
Steve blinks. “You believe that?”  
  
It's a moment before the asset replies again. “I don't know.”  
  
It sort of breaks Steve's heart, in a weird way, that his captor doesn't even see himself as _human_ , but more of a machine. The fact he calls himself the asset says it all, Steve's mind notes. He scrambles for a way to push the topic out of the spotlight, and with his eyes now having adjusted to the darkness, Steve can see the dark splotches littered along the asset's collar. Some of it even reaches the growing stubble on his throat and jaw, and his long hair is knotted and damp with the same dark substance.  
  
“What is that?” Steve waves a hand noncommittally towards his chest, which is only clad in a simple white t-shirt. “Blood?” He guesses it's from the dead body he'd disposed of earlier, but when the asset replies he knows he's wrong.  
  
“Loose ends,” He says. Steve can't see his eyes in the dark, but he knows they're narrowed. He doesn't ask for elaboration – he's starting to think that maybe this guy is some sort of hitman or murderer, and knowing too much could be fatal if he wanted to go home anytime soon. Steve's chest sinks nevertheless and he settles himself to a more comfortable position on the bed.  
  
That's when the asset takes his cue to leave, picking up the key he left on the side table and slipping it into the pocket of his jeans (that Steve notices are way too tight for a guy who's supposed to be a crazy kidnapper with no known links to society). When he leaves the room, Steve adjusts himself enough so that he's spread out comfortably on the bed, or, as comfortable as he _could_ be cuffed to the headboard.  
  
His entire body screams in a silent thank you, because now at least he's not going to wake up again with a kinked neck and pained limbs. Even if the bed is flat and devoid of any sheets or pillows, Steve falls into another sleep, content that maybe he's not going to _die_ anytime shortly.  
  
  
  
  
Steve wakes up to the asset sitting silently at the end of the bed, watching the wall in front of him. Sunlight is filtering through the dark room, allowing Steve to notice that there's no trace of blood on the asset's clothing or in his hair anymore. In fact, when Steve props himself up – catching the asset's speculative eye – he notices that the asset is now clean-shaven where there once was rough stubble growing.  
  
He looks – well, he looks _normal_. He doesn't look like the man that pointed a gun at his head at the gas station, the one that looked broken and scruffy around the edges.  
  
The asset's eyebrows are stitched together when his gaze turns on Steve's face, not in confusion or anger, but something else. He gets up for a moment to reach for the plate of food and glass of water resting on the side table and pushes it towards Steve on the bed. The asset, Steve notices with a nervous twang in his chest, looks absolutely _wrecked_ , like he hasn't slept for the past six nights despite his clean outwardly appearance.  
  
He nudges the plate of food towards Steve again and it's enough to snap Steve out of his groggy observations. He latches onto the plate and takes one small bite out of the apple when the asset speaks up.  
  
“I think I know my name.”  
  
Steve freezes. He doesn't expect the civility from his _kidnapper_ , but he swallows his bite of food and tries to formulate a response. “You didn't know your name?”  
  
“I didn't remember having one,” The asset replies.  
  
Steve's lips part, half in reply and half in shock – how did someone not know their own _name_? Dozens of questions arise in his mind, but Steve settles for one. “Why are you telling me this?” He's pretty sure most captors don't get all personal with their victims, and he's pretty sure he should be _dead_ right now if the asset was the typical kidnapper, but he's not.  
  
The asset's eyes scan over Steve – over his skinny legs pulled to his chest, his right arm curled around his legs to protect himself from the frigid morning air – and settles on his face again. “I don't know,” He admits. The asset's eyes, Steve notices, hold something that resembles hurt and confusion... signs of an inward struggle. “I could do it easily. I could kill you.”  
  
The statement, said so simply and without emotion like it's just another fact, makes Steve shiver. He assumes it's a threat for Steve if he tries to escape, so he chuckles shortly and without humor. “Who would I go to?” Steve lives alone, nobody would be missing him if he never came back, and the only answer would be reporting to the police.  
  
“Hydra,” says the asset.  
  
Steve recognizes the word and wants to ask more, but he just nods his head as if he understands anyway. He _really_ doesn't. “You...” He licks his lips, struggling to find something to say. He doesn't want to anger the asset, and for some reason, he gets the feeling he should be _comforting_ which is just wrong, so he settles for the obvious. “Why would you kill me?”  
  
The asset shrugs his shoulders and averts his eyes from Steve so that his eyelashes cast a small shadow on his cheekbones. He stands up. “Because I can.”  
  
Steve knows he doesn't mean because Steve is handcuffed to the bed and can't fight back – he knows it means he has the abilities to, which is more than disconcerting. Plus, he's like twice Steve's size and could snap him in half with the twist of a wrist.  
  
He just hopes that isn't anytime soon.  
  
Before the asset can make a move to leave, Steve pushes the plate away and asks, “So what's your name?” If there's anything he can call the asset to make him sound more human, he'll take it.  
  
The corners of his lips quirk up into the ghost of a smile for a split second, as if unused to the feeling of it, yet still bemused. “Bucky.”  
  
With that, the asset takes his leave, not bothering to take the empty plate and glass with him, moving his way down the hallway until Steve can't see him anymore, leaving him with his thoughts.  
  
What kind of a name was _Bucky_?  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Indulge, my friends. I have no idea if I want this to be a slow burn or not, but I _know_ most of you beautiful people came here for the tags. There will be sex. Maybe not now, or soon, but plenty. Trust me.   
>  Also this hit 100 kudos? How the fu-


	4. Chapter 4

Steve wakes again – _God_ , he needs to stop dozing off, but what else was there to do in here? - to the loud bang of something in a large cluster falling to the floor outside the room. Automatically, he sits upright, chest still heaving from the rude awakening, and pulls against the cuffs attached to his hand experimentally. When he realizes they're still there, and _he's_ still holed up in a shitty apartment room and being held captive, he slumps in against himself and swallows down the anxiousness in his throat.   
  
Still, his eyes jerk around the room and he cranes his head to sneak a peek down the pitch black hallway – it's gotta be at _least_ two in the morning, because Steve can hear the muted roar of cars outside the building even though it's dark out.   
  
When another crash comes, closer this time, Steve snaps his head upright at the sound. It doesn't sound good at all. For a moment he hopes it's the cops, that he's finally getting out of here, until he hears the string of muffled yet angered curses that follow.  
  
The asset – _Bucky –_ stalks down the hallway and Steve catches a glimpse of his metal hand in the darkness though barely. He's... _different_ , and he's not slowing down. He stops at the threshold, all rigid limbs and a strong chest, and scans the room before his eyes land on Steve's form and narrow.   
  
That's when he springs into action – he crosses the room faster than Steve can register and glares down at him like he has some newfound purpose. “ _Govorit', izmennik._ ”  
  
Steve doesn't understand. He's speaking in that tongue again and Steve doesn't know what language it is, but it _sounds_ Russian. All he can do is sit there on the dirty bed, useless with his wrist still cuffed to the headboard. Bucky's tone sounds outright dangerous, low and slithery and _threatening_ , and Steve wants to shudder but he tries not to with Bucky's clouded grey eyes boring holes into his face.   
  
When he doesn't reply, Bucky's hand shoots out and grabs Steve's cuffed left wrist, painfully so. He digs his fingers into a pressure point and Steve's entire arm _caves_ , sending waves of pain shooting up his shoulder and forcing him to cry out in absolute pain.   
  
The asset – Bucky, Steve has to keep reminding himself, he's _human_ – doesn't even seem affected by the damage he's done, and doesn't show signs of any amount of effort put into the act. Bucky still doesn't let go of Steve's wrist, and when Steve can't take it anymore, teeth gritted through the agony, his right hand shoots out to grip onto Bucky's arm tightly.  
  
Bucky's composure shifts completely. His reflexes kick in immediately and he lets Steve's wrist fall limp against the cuffs again, twisting his own arm so quickly that Steve can't register it until suddenly his right wrist is being attacked by vicious fingernails digging into it.   
  
Then it's Bucky's left arm fucking _whirring_ as Steve's entire head is pushed back into the headboard when Bucky's hard, metal fingers dig into his throat. It happens too fast for Steve to even think. His right wrist is being held against his own chest by Bucky's other arm, his _human_ arm, and then Bucky is jumping on top of him to straddle Steve and push his hand harder into Steve's throat.   
  
Steve struggles for breath. He can feel his mind going blank already, and he can't use _either_ of his arms to fight back. He's completely small and powerless against this side of the asset - a side that was foreign until now. It sparks Steve's fighter instinct, because there's nothing worse to him than feeling so utterly _useless_ , and he attempts to push his torso away from Bucky's pinned grasp.  
  
“S- _Stop_ ,” Steve manages to choke out, his fingers grasping at nothing while his wrist is still in Bucky's grasp. He tries to kick his legs out from underneath Bucky, but _fuck_ , this guy must weigh three times Steve. It's not at all surprising that he fails.   
  
Bucky's cold eyes stare down at Steve, his hair wildly framing his face, and he snaps something sharply in his foreign tongue that Steve can't make out.  
  
He releases Steve's wrist only to reach behind him, into one of his back pockets, and Steve uses the advantage to claw at the hand grasping his throat tightly and constricting his breath. _Fuck_. Steve has no fucking clue what's going on, _or_ why Bucky is trying to kill him all of a sudden when he'd only just revealed his name hours earlier in an act of vulnerability.  
  
Steve tries to talk, but all that comes out is a raspy gasp, then, “B-B _ucky_ ,” and all of a sudden it stops.   
  
It just stops. Slowly, at first, but something in Bucky's eyes shift and his lips part in response. Then his fingers undo themselves from Steve's neck, warily, and Bucky's previously angered and determined expression goes slack.   
  
Steve, at this point, is seeing spots. He lets his head fall limp against his shoulder, exposing his throat to Bucky even more (which isn't the _best_ move Steve's made) and gasps desperately for air. There's nothing he can do except bring his free wrist to his throat tenderly to ease the throbbing pain – he's never been _choked_ in a fight before, but he's sure it's gonna bruise.   
  
Instantly, Bucky jumps off of Steve onto the hardwood floor and staggers back, blinking. “ _Der'mo_ ,” He breathes out. He looks absolutely wrecked, face full of regret. “Shit. Fuck. _Fuck_.” Bucky steps back more and more until his back hits the wall just beside the threshold.   
  
Steve brings his legs up to curl in on himself, rubbing at his throat where he can still feel Bucky's cold metal fingers, and watches on in confusion. Bucky wanted to _kill_ him only a moment before, and now he looks like he wants to kill _himself_ for even trying. He notices the way Bucky's shoulders cave inwards like he's trying to hide himself from Steve.  
  
He sees Bucky's fingers glint in the moonlight again and his eyes trail up them only to find that his metal hand is a metal _arm_ , shoulder concealed by the simple grey t-shirt he adorns.   
  
“I don't suppose you're a veteran,” Steve rasps out dryly in reference to it, voice wrecked and haggard.  
  
“I'm sorry,” Bucky says, and Steve _thinks_ he sounds genuine, because it's the only time he's heard him apologize. “I get- I get these...”  
  
A silence pulls through among them, settling in the air for a few moments, and Steve counts his breaths in. When he gets to twelve, he says, “Don't worry about it,” even though he _had_ just got his wrist locked and throat choked. He knew how to hold a grudge, though, so he _guessed_ it would be fine. He was right about the asset being unstable, however. “For what it's worth, you're a pretty shitty captor if you're apologizing.”   
  
Steve tries to punctuate with an upturn of his lips, but he can barely muster a smile over the screaming of his throat. Bucky's lips, however, curve up at the ends slightly in the ghost of a smile before it disappears completely and Steve isn't even sure he _saw_ it.   
  
Then he pulls his handgun out of a back pocket and Steve's breath almost stops completely when he throws it across the room. It lands on the bed in front of Steve. “Here.”  
  
What the _fu-_ “You're giving me a _gun_?” Steve chokes out incredulously, looking up at Bucky with wide eyes. His heart hammers in his chest. “You know I could shoot you, right?”  
  
Bucky hardens his jaw. “You don't know what I can do,” He mutters roughly, even though Steve is pretty sure he got the gist of it just _before_.   
  
But, still, touché. “I don't even know what you _want_.” Steve doesn't bother to elaborate, because it lingers in the air anyway – there's no reason to keep someone captive if you don't need answers, or want a reason to torture and kill them, or because you're mentally ill.   
  
Sure, Steve had offered to help him find answers, but to _what_? So far, Bucky has given no notion that he _wants_ Steve's help. Hell, he was ready to off him the moment he realized Steve had no answers of his own. If Steve doesn't know the situation at hand, what's his purpose being holed up here anyway?  
  
Even if he didn't go to the police if he got released, he knows he'd be a loose end somehow for the asset. He'd _have_ to die, right? There's no feasible way out of this because he's too far in. So, if Bucky doesn't want to let him in, why _is_ he still alive?  
  
“If I touch you again...” Bucky starts, but cuts himself short and simply jerks his head towards the gun at Steve's feet. Steve allows himself to shiver at both the cold of the night and the idea.   
  
He couldn't be serious. He _is_ serious. He's willing to get a bullet through his head if he tries to choke the guy cuffed to the bed again? Steve gives Bucky another incredulous look, but he isn't looking at Steve or the gun anymore. Steve can't tell what his deal is, but he decides finally that maybe the answers the asset seeks lie in his own head, and maybe there's nothing Steve can do to help.   
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter, a new semester of school, a new wave of assignments and self-pity, and a new cut on my finger from the slicer at work which prevents me from typing normally but LIFE IS GREAT.
> 
> But anyways, holy shit, thank you guys for the love on this. The amount of feedback this has gotten makes me want to _cry_. Shit is gonna start going down in the next chapter, which I have typed and edited already, so keep an eye out for that. Jesus, I feel so much love for all of you. You're all my kids now.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit late because my ass decided to get _very_ sick last Thursday, and I was too lazy to get out of bed and edit. Enjoy this chapter!

The next day folds out predictably. Bucky shuffles into the room to feed him, takes him to the bathroom, locks him back up and leaves Steve with his thoughts all over again. Not much is said between the two. Steve wonders if there's anything really to be _said._ After all, Bucky _had_ tried to kill him the night before. Anything like that could make things awkward between two people.  
  
Only it isn't the awkwardness that irks Steve. His thoughts prick at him like sharp needles, begging for attention. When he's alone, he entertains the notion of going back to his shitty apartment and shitty job and shitty life, and when he's not he stares at Bucky and wonders what the haggard man used to be, and what he _is_. Steve's fingers occasionally itch for a pencil and paper, but he supposes there's no real _use_ for that holed up in here. His inspiration is as drained as his energy lately.  
  
Either way, he sleeps when he's not eating, or when Bucky's not talking, or when Steve's not thinking.  
  
It's the sound of the Bucky's boots touching the hardwood floor in quiet, even thumps that wake Steve up in the middle of the night. Hell, Steve could close his eyes at the end of a long shift and be out like a light in seconds, but he was always a light sleeper. Part of him thinks it's the array of health problems that keeps his sleep cycles so light.  
  
Steve sits up with the gun tucked close to his side and shoots Bucky a wary glance. He's only been asleep for a while. Steve hopes this isn't a replay of the last night, but Bucky seems nonchalant and already has the key clutched in his hand, so he relaxes and allows his wrist to be held and the cuff loosened.  
  
He wants to say something this time, but he can't fathom a fucking _thing_ to talk about. He willingly scoots off the bed and is incredibly aware of how oily his hair and skin feels. It's probably been a week and a half since he's been gone. The floorboards creak under his bare feet when he lets Bucky lead him by the arm to the bathroom in silence.  
  
Steve just wants to go back to sleep, but managing his way around the walls isn't hard once he's gotten used to Bucky leading him so many times in the dark. Bucky's fingers barely grip onto his upper arm anymore – they linger softly, as though he's making sure Steve is still there. _Or_ as a silent threat of what he can do. Steve isn't sure yet.  
  
When they find themselves in the shithole of a bathroom, Steve once again finds himself wanting to say _something_ , but his throat closes up around his tongue. He's not scared of the asset – not _really –_ or of the softer side of Bucky that he's seen snippets of, but he is scared of what he can do.  
  
And it's not that Steve is afraid to speak his mind, it's just that he has nothing to say. He doesn't have a reason to be thrashing about and resisting Bucky because he's already accepted his capture. He's not going home anytime soon, not until Bucky finds answers, and maybe that's something Steve should be asking about.  
  
Bucky lets his fingers go from Steve's arm and Steve steps forward only to slip on the cold tiles. His hand shoots out to grab the sink counter but his bony hip goes crashing into it at the same time, effectively releasing a bunch of curses from Steve's mouth.  
  
He feels cold metal fingers shoot out to grab his waist and his breath hitches. Whether it's at the cold of the metal or the sensation, he doesn't know, but Steve freezes until Bucky lets go.  
  
“Sorry,” The gruff voice finds it's way in the darkness.  
  
“S'okay,” Steve mumbles back with averted eyes, rubbing his throbbing hip tenderly. It's gonna hurt like a _bitch_ later because Steve is skinny and bruises like a peach, but it's nothing new. Nothing he can't live through. He's gone through entire shifts at work with split lips and black eyes, so a small bruise is nothing. Then again, with Rumlow as shitty of a manager as he is, a few black eyes wouldn't account for a sick day ever. There's no sympathy with that guy.  
  
When he's finished his business and Bucky's fingers find their way back to his arm, Steve tries not let his breath catch again. This isn't _new_ , but it feels different. He's only now noticing, through his muggy sleepiness, how Bucky's fingers feel – calloused and rough but still soft in the way they're maneuvered.  
  
Steve finds his way back to the room and bed under Bucky's watch. Sleep is ready to take him again, and he knows when he wakes up in the morning it'll be to apples, plums, tap water, and his thoughts. He crawls up onto the bed and holds his wrist in the air for Bucky to cuff him again, not because he's given up but because he hasn't formulated a way out. If Steve had a plan, he'd kick his way out screaming through sweat and blood.  
  
Bucky grabs the cuff and is just about to go for Steve's wrist when a loud, obnoxious beeping from another room sounds – Steve _thinks_ it's the main room, but he hasn't been in there.  
  
“ _Der'mo_ ,” Bucky spits it like a swear and looks from Steve's curious face to the cuffs hanging from the frame of the bed, then to the hallway. He swears again and bites at his lips anxiously before the beeping gets more incessant and Bucky finally straightens up, letting the cuffs fall loose, and stalks out of the room, boots thumping loudly and determined.  
  
Steve doesn't give a _shit_ what the beeping was, as curious as he is of a person, because he's too tired to even think straight. He dozes off with a _what, barely over a week and he's already letting me off the hook?_ thought and an audible lazy scoff before he curls in on himself, content with the feeling of being able to comfortably use both arms.  
  
  
  
Steve jolts up with wide eyes. _Barely_ fifteen minutes have passed, he'd only just closed his eyes, but he tears himself away from the bed and stumbles onto the wooden floor with no grace at all, falling onto his ass with a loud thump. His eyes jerk towards the open door, into the dark hallway, now wide awake and _wondering_. Fuck.  
  
_Fuck_. Steve curses himself in his mind over and over again. Why didn't he seize his chance? He could have ran as soon as Bucky hesitated. In fact, he could have ran _anytime_ he was uncuffed by Bucky, but he didn't. Steve takes the moment to regret not taking his chances, but then brings himself to his feet shakily with another realization.  
  
Whether or not Bucky is in another room, this is a chance. Even if he gets caught, Steve would beat himself up for not doing this. He had to... He had to _try_ , right?  
  
Or maybe this was a test. Bucky could be right outside that door, hidden among the darkness of the hallway, waiting for Steve to make this mistake. He wants to shudder at that thought, but even so...  
  
Steve steps experimentally towards the doorway, testing his freedom. _God_ , is this even real? Is he dreaming? Hallucinating? It's barely been two weeks since his capture and he's already bubbling with nerves over having two free arms now. He can leave. He can go anywhere right now, assuming he isn't caught.  
  
Steve doesn't have a plan – he isn't sure he was ever going to have a plan that didn't start with “take Bucky by surprise when he uncuffs you and run like hell” because _that_ would've backfired easily.  
  
Steve creeps towards the threshold on tiptoes, hoping the boards won't make a noise underneath his bare feet, and strains his ears for _any_ source of sound from the other room. All he can make out is the muffled roaring of cars in the far distance outside and it sparks another wave of nervousness in Steve. This could be it.  
  
The darkness of the hallway washes over him as he enters it and he feels along the walls for guidance, even though he knows the number of turns to get to the bathroom. Only, he isn't _trying_ to find the bathroom this time. He's trying to find a way out.  
  
The wall is cool underneath his fingertips and his heart feels like it's hammering in his throat. He turns left and feels for the wall again. With an estimated right turn, Steve is plunged into bright moonlight filtering in through the main room. It's a small apartment, he realizes, and there's virtually nothing in it besides a ratty couch, a few dirty shelves and a tiny kitchen. Junk fills the corners and litters the counters but the room is relatively devoid of anything worthwhile.  
  
And, more importantly, there's no sign of Bucky.  
  
Steve steps warily into the living room, catching a glimpse of a messy array of files lying in the middle of it in front of the couch, and wonders if this is where Bucky sleeps. He's not sure if Bucky sleeps at _all_ , though.  
  
He still catches his breath and counts his steps so that he doesn't make any noise, but there seems to be no sign of Bucky and Steve fucking _whoops_ in his head because this means he can find his escape. To his right, just beyond the couch, is a window where the moonlight seeps in through. Just beyond that the light hits the metal of... Steve's heartbeat thuds in his ears. It's a fire escape. He doesn't know if he'll be able to get the window up without making too much noise, or if he'll have to smash it instead, or even if the fire escape is _intact_ , but it's _something_.  
  
Steve can't even _think_ he's so ecstatic with the thought of finally getting out of this – going home to his shitty apartment and his shitty job and his shitty life, and oh God, his shitty _shower._ He doesn't even care if it doesn't use hot water half the time, he could just really use a bath in any way possible.  
  
He's already halfway across the living room, just passing the couch when he steps on a few splayed papers on the floor with a crunch. Steve pauses to look down at them, his eyes flickering from the window to his feet in haste. The type written on them is unusual and catches Steve's eye so much that he finds the file nearby that they had spilled out of and slots them back in.  
  
He's almost about to lay it back down when something tells him to open it up. Although there's heaps of junk lying around, what would a file be doing in the middle of the room? The very place in which Bucky had been residing in while Steve slept in the next room, unaware of anything he was doing when he wasn't with Steve.  
  
The new thoughts eventually lead Steve to slip open the file to the first page. The first thing to catch his attention is the name – _JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES –_ and then the small attached photograph at the bottom. It's outdated and burned around the edges, like it was taken with a vintage camera. The name means virtually nothing to Steve, but it's the photograph that peaks his interest and Steve does a double take.  
  
The sepia man within the photograph has the remnants of a smirk gracing his lips. He's an attractive man, adorned in a military uniform and cropped hair, and his hat tilted in a way that screams 'cocky'.  
  
Steve realizes with a sudden catch of breath that this man looks frighteningly similar to Bucky. The eyes are different somehow, and the hair obviously, but... This man screams innocence, the ghost of a confident young man, and Bucky screams damaged. The aftermath.  
  
He swallows. “So he _is_ a vet,” Steve breathes aloud to himself, scoffing. He knows it's impossible, though – this photograph is old and the man looks far too different from the Bucky he sees to be the same person.  
  
Steve scans the file, not really _reading_ the words but rather finding out how much is written in it, when he hears the voice behind him. “Put it down.”  
  
Steve all but shits himself, twisting around on his feet to find Bucky standing there, very much resembling a broken version of the man in the file he's holding. He grips it tighter in his hands and ignores the thudding ringing in his ears and the disappointment. He missed his chance.  
  
If he wants to get out alive, he could start listing off excuses as to why he's in the living room, why he's so close to the window and just what his motives were, but Steve can see the panic in Bucky's eyes when he looks at the file in Steve's hands. “What is this?” Steve asks, swallowing, but Bucky's jaw hardens and his gloved fingers flex.  
  
Steve looks down at the open file again, back at the photograph, and then up at Bucky. He still has his doubts, but the anxious look in Bucky's eyes presses him. “Is this you?”  
  
“I don't know.”  
  
He doesn't know how, but he _knows_ that's bullshit. There are differences, for sure – in the way that Bucky's eyes are dull and the uniformed man's are bright – but it _has_ to be him. There's something in Bucky's tone that says it. “It looks like you,” Steve indulges. Except handsome and cocky and cleaner.  
  
“It's not anymore.”  
  
Steve's eyes flicker down back to the file and catch something that makes him eye Bucky in disbelief. “It says you were born in _1917_.” This guy had to be almost one hundred years old, which is _impossible_. Maybe it's a relative. A grandfather. Bucky stays quiet, furrowing his brows at the file. “What is this?”  
  
Bucky inhales through his nose and steps forward, setting his jaw. “What were you doing?”  
  
Steve tries not to be taken aback by the sudden subject change. “You left me uncuffed. I-” He probably shouldn't mention how he was about to _escape,_ but by the narrow of Bucky's eyes Steve knows he suspects it already.  
  
“You shouldn't have read that.” Bucky takes another step forward, the sound of his leather gloves crunching as he flexes his fingers again.  
  
“I didn't,” Steve replies defiantly, because it's _true_. “I only- I read your name.”  
  
“It's not my name,” is the immediate answer.  
  
“Bucky is your real name?” Steve asks skeptically, the hint of an amused smile playing on his lips. He holds up the file. “Tell me what this is and I'll give it back.”  
  
Bucky is silent for a moment. Then, “It's my file.”  
  
“For what?” Steve retorts immediately.  
  
“From Hydra.”  
  
That word again. His eyes flicker towards Bucky's gloved hands and notices the pocket knife in his left. Steve swallows back the nervousness in his throat and lifts his chin up, glaring at Bucky. “Who are you?” He doesn't mean his name, or birthplace, or occupation. He wants to know what the fuck Bucky _is_.  
  
There's a beat of silence where nothing happens, where they both defiantly set their jaws and Bucky looks like he's contemplating, but then Bucky jerks his chin up towards the file. “Read it and find out.”  
  
Steve's eyes flicker to the file and then back to Bucky, who this time doesn't stare at it in panic or that other emotion Steve can't put his finger on. He looks determined.  
  
Steve lets himself sink down onto the couch beside him and inches his fingers towards the pages in the file.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit is definitely starting to go down. Bucky's memories will slowly unravel throughout the story, so reading his file is like reading about someone else's life for him. Not everything is going to trigger his life pre-Winter Soldier, it _will_ take some time. And, of course, he doesn't exactly see little Stevie as a possible threat anymore, so he's not as closed off and stoic towards him. Let me know what you think!
> 
> SOME VISUALS:
> 
> lil confused asset bucky  
> 
> 
> lil smol steve  
> 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Tis a long one, children.

Steve stares down at the file once he's finished through unfocused eyes. He can't mentally comprehend something like this, not even the _situation_ he's in right now, and it's fucking over his mind in ways he can't understand. His fingers tap at the opened file in his lap audibly. Bucky's concentrated gaze is burning into the side of his face - he can _feel_ it - and it's pissing him off but he can't find a way to voice it after what he's read. It's like Bucky isn't sure whether to perceive Steve as a threat now.   
  
Nevertheless, Steve gathers up his balls and looks up at Bucky, assessing him. He's not staring at Steve anymore, but burning holes into the floorboards at Steve's feet with furrowed brows. “Have you read this?” Steve asks slowly. When Bucky doesn't reply, the twitch of his brows the only indication he'd heard him, Steve closes the file. “This is you?”  
  
A flicker of confusion passes over Bucky's face but is gone before Steve can properly assess it. “I don't know.”  
  
“This all...” Steve licks his lips before setting the file aside and standing up, boards creaking underneath him and breaking the eerie quiet. “This all happened to you. You're... the man in the file.”  
  
Saying it aloud, more to himself than to Bucky, somehow brings him more understanding than trying to just wrap his head around it in silence.   
  
“Yes,” Bucky says.  
  
“You're... Bucky Barnes?” Steve cradles his elbows in each hand in a personal embrace. The name sounds cheesy, _exactly_ the type of character name to come out of the 50s era, but when he thinks of the man in the photograph it's not so funny.   
  
There's a small hesitation before Bucky replies, “Yes.”  
  
Steve nods once, solemnly. “And you know this? You remember this?”  
  
There's a pause again and the ghost of a shudder passes through Bucky before Steve can register it. His eyes are still stuck to the floorboards at Steve's feet. “Not... all of it.”   
  
And, well, fuck. Steve doesn't know how to reply to _that_ , because he can hardly believe that a man born in 1917 is stood before him, not looking a day older from 1943 if not for the haggard appearance he has going for himself. How it's possible, Steve doesn't know, and why Bucky doesn't remember 'all of it' beats him, but suddenly he's wishing he had jumped out that fire escape when he had the chance.  
  
“I didn't...” Bucky starts, surprising Steve, and he steps forward timidly. “There's more. I didn't have time to take it all.”  
  
Steve lets his mouth fall open in question, because the file resting on the couch only documents all the information on James Buchanan Barnes, his platoon, his associates, the date of his capture and all of the nightmarish things done to him during his time as a P.O.W, as well as the details of his death. James Buchanan Barnes, in this file, had been proclaimed “Missing In Action”.   
  
Bucky Barnes should be dead. Yet, if the man in front of him was telling the truth – even though he wasn't _telling_ much at all – then he was, in fact, Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes from the 107th infantry, and somehow had survived falling off a train and survived the last seventy years.   
  
Steve is sure that is _impossible_.   
  
“W-”  
  
“There's more,” Bucky cuts him off, repeating himself. “I know there's more. There's... I _remember_ more.”  
  
“Bucky...” Steve says slowly. “There's _nothing_ more. The file, it- it ends there.”  
  
Bucky, however, seems like he's lost in his own thought. His brows are knitted together and his lips are pulled into a deep frown. “I am the soldier. I'm- I am the asset.”  
  
Steve shakes his head in confusion, pointing to the file. “None of that means anything to you?”  
  
“It's like reading about someone else. Some of it... But,” Bucky falters, raising his head to set his jaw, “I have always been the asset.”  
  
Steve is having trouble wrapping his mind around even more of this. Bucky _is_ the man in the file, but Bucky has no recollection of anything the file states, save the name and the birth – the simple details. Part of Steve wonders if Bucky only 'remembers' those details because they're the easiest things in the file to believe. They aren't events, or opinions or friends or family, they're straight facts. All Bucky remembers is being some sort of asset, but to _who_? _For_ who?   
  
To add onto that, nowhere in the file does it state that Sergeant James Barnes was a _murderer_ , so what changed in the last seventy years? The word _Hydra_ passes through Steve's mind, but it means virtually nothing to him because he still doesn't know what it _is._ He hopes that maybe it's something of importance, maybe something that holds an answer to Bucky's 'dilemma', but from what Steve has gathered Hydra sounds like a _group_.   
  
Steve opens his mouth to say something, anything that could get them further out of this confusion, but is interrupted.   
  
Three distinct knocks on the front door across the apartment room sound.   
  
Steve freezes. His eyes flicker towards Bucky nervously, in case this was maybe a friend of his, a partner in crime, maybe.   
  
Bucky himself has snapped his head up to meet Steve's expression, his own wide eyes a reflection of the idea that yes, Steve should _definitely_ be worried. If Bucky looked panicked, then so the fuck should Steve. “Fuck,” Bucky spits under his breath. His eyes flicker in the direction of the door behind him, then back to Steve.   
  
Bucky signals for Steve to kindly shut the fuck up by bringing his forefinger to his lips, then slowly and agilely crouches to the floor. Steve doesn't so much as move a muscle, even though the thought hits him that this could be the cops – though he doubts they would come knocking politely.  
  
Bucky advances towards the door. The boards beneath him don't even creak under his weight, even though he's at least one hundred pounds heavier than Steve, and it only emphasizes how dangerous he could be. Whoever is behind the door stays silent after the loud knocking, waiting, and Bucky continues his advances until he reaches for the door handle, knife at the ready.   
  
Something tiny and cylindrical rolls under the door, slowly and menacing, rolling past Bucky and coming to a small halt once it hits the kitchen island. The object is metal and flashing, and Steve's eyes widen at the short beeps that accompany it. It's either an explosive or something else Steve doesn't know of – he just _draws_ , _okay_? - and Bucky's eyes also go wide.  
  
There's no time to react, because the cylindrical object beeps in rapid succession before exploding.  
  
Steve falls to the floor and curls in on himself, bracing for impact – but it doesn't come immediately. Bucky has already pocketed his dagger and grabs Steve up to his feet, pushing him away from the gas rolling out from the metal object. “Cover your mouth,” he orders sharply, pulling his own shirt collar up to his nose.   
  
Steve copies him and wonders briefly what the _fuck_ is going on, when suddenly something large is banging into the door to break it open. It creaks loudly under the pressure, but Steve is surprised at how it holds up.   
  
“The window,” Bucky says suddenly, pushing Steve in the direction of it, backing away from the gas bomb. “Go to the window. _Now_.”  
  
Steve lets himself stagger, but relents. “What's-”  
  
“ _Jesus_ ,” Bucky swears and stalks across the room to the kitchen island, pushing himself through the advancing gas to reach behind the counter and pull a backpack out. He stuffs the file on the couch into it and returns to where Steve stands, grabbing his wrist and punching the window out with his left arm.  
  
Steve winces at the loud noise and tries to cover himself from the shattering glass. He's then lifted through the window by Bucky like he weighs nothing, landing on the fire escape with a deafening _clang_.   
  
Bucky follows through and slings the backpack over his right shoulder. His own landing is much quieter than Steve's - more stealthy.  
  
“Where are we going?” Steve asks through slight coughs. He can't breathe through the flimsy material of his shirt, and the air he does take in is contaminated by the gas canister inside the apartment. His eyes burn and water. “What is that?” His voice is wearing thin because of it.  
  
“Away from here,” Bucky grunts back, pulling Steve down the stairs of the fire escape. Steve feels himself barely keeping up with him, and for the most part, it feels like Bucky is carrying him down by the arm, but he's in no position to be standing his ground. “Tear gas,” Bucky calls behind him at Steve.   
  
It explains the burning in his lungs, throat, and eyes, but not _who_ the hell did it. Steve's legs are already screaming at him to stop, and when they've passed the third flight of metal stairs – he didn't even know they were _this_ far up, Bucky brings him to a halt and Steve struggles to find his breath.   
  
“Jump,” Bucky orders thickly, and lets go of Steve to twist his own body up and over the rails to the asphalt alley below.   
  
Steve races to look down to where Bucky landed, crouched on the balls of his feet, waiting for Steve. He glances up to the floor they raced from, and can hear the bang and crunch of the door falling off its hinges and loud, intrusive voices yelling from inside. He glances back at Bucky with panic. He doesn't know what side he's on, for God's sake.  
  
“I'll catch you,” Bucky calls up, and Steve doesn't know if it's a _joke,_ because it doesn't seem like the asset to mess around in a situation like this. There's a shout from upstairs, and Steve grips the railing tight.  
  
“Don't you dare,” Steve calls back and hoists himself up and over the railing, feeling the cold night air rush past him and he braces himself for impact. He lands on his feet and they protest in pain at the impact, so he nearly topples back and onto his ass. Before he can, Bucky grabs him by the arm again, pulling him along.   
  
“Come on,” Bucky says, even though Steve's feet and legs and _lungs_ are begging for a break already.   
  
The alleyway is a shithole, to say the least, and not doing any favors for Steve's shoe-less feet, but he makes his way through the darkness of it after Bucky.   
  
He tries not to cough up a lung while he's running, but manages to get out a question at least. “Who were they?” He gasps out, “Hydra?”  
  
“Agents,” Bucky corrects him lowly, seeming very unaffected by the amount of running they're doing. He pulls Steve left through another alleyway.   
  
Steve recalls Bucky accusing him of being an agent of Hydra, one that he wanted information from, but other than that he's left in the dark. “Of Hydra? With answers?”   
  
They exit into a virtually empty parking lot save for some flickering streetlights and a few ratty old cars, and Bucky hauls Steve along in a fast walk. “No,” He replies darkly, “They're the ones who don't want me to find answers.”  
  
Steve shuts up at that, focuses himself on following Bucky, even though his mind is racing more than it ever has before. A million questions arise, as always, but Steve doesn't voice them.   
  
Bucky smashes the window in of one of the cars, a small red one, and the alarm sounds loudly and offensively throughout the lot, probably meeting it's way to the intruders just around the corner. Steve shivers at the thought, but then wonders whose side he should _really_ be on. Should he really be following Bucky?  
  
He glances quickly at the dark alleyway they came out of, half hoping and half dreading any movement that might come from it, when the alarm cuts off and Bucky is already opening the door of the car and sending Steve a sharp, unreadable look. “Get in.”   
  
Steve hesitates for a moment, looking back and forth from the car to Bucky. “Where are we going?”  
  
Bucky shuts the door after himself and throws his backpack into the backseat, finding a key hidden in the glove compartment and starting the car up. Without answering Steve's question, he revs the engine and waits for Steve to hop in.   
  
Steve gives in with a heavy groan and makes his way around to the passenger side of the car, hopping in quickly and shutting the door after him. He glances at Bucky who immediately hightails the car out of the lot.   
  
They make it onto a busy highway full of cars and lights, swiftly dodging in and out of lanes and around vehicles. Bucky completely ignores the notion of road rules. “How does DC sound?” Bucky asks flatly, not bothering to look at Steve.  
  
Steve's stomach sinks at the question. It dawns on him, with a hammering chest, that he's not going home anytime soon.  
  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, let me know what you think and I hope you enjoyed!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI. HELLO. A FEW THINGS: I apologise for the wait - shit has been intense on my side for many weeks now, had to push this project down on my priorities list, but it will not be abandoned! Alas, this chapter is a short one, but rather than make it a longer wait I decided to get this out till I can write the next one up. Which, I'm afraid, may not be for another week or so - once I get my shit together this will once again become my main priority!
> 
> Also I am not American, just to clarify, so I have no idea what the fuck I'm on about with this NY - DC crap, just a lot of research online. It's a shame WS wasn't set in Australia.

Steve doesn't bother making small talk as Bucky swerves through cars and switches lanes. His stomach lurches whenever Bucky hits a sharp corner, and the next fifteen minutes is spent trying not to get himself crushed against the passenger side door. His mind is a jumbled, fuzzy mess of questions and possibilities and Steve is honestly too fucking tired to make sense of any of it. It has to be early in the morning, though it's still dark, though Steve is still just as clueless as he was when he got himself into this.  
  
There's a clock on the stereo – the glowing red numbers barely illuminating the car almost taunt him – but it reads four in the afternoon much to Steve's dismay. He spends the first fifteen minutes clinging to the handle of his door and clutching at his seatbelt, staring at the blurred passing of street lights and the occasional flock of people awake and out.  
  
Steve can barely get a good glance at anything with the speed Bucky is going at and with the corners they're taking. For a moment he wonders if Bucky even knows where he's going, or if it's a ploy to guarantee they've lost their intruders. What does DC have in store for him, anyway?  
  
Steve knows that bringing him along would only slow Bucky down – there's obviously something much darker going on here, something that very much _doesn't_ involve Steve, but Bucky was persistent in taking him. Or as persistent as Bucky could be with his broody and silent intimidation. He _guesses_ it's because Steve knows too much to be let off the hook, even more so after reading Bucky's file. He is very _definitely_ a liability.  
  
He tries his best to bring his knees up to his chest as comfortably as he can while Bucky speeds through the streets of New York. How was Bucky so prepared when the intruders came? Did he _know_ they were coming? If he did, then why hadn't he evacuated the shitty place sooner? If they only wanted Bucky, then why did he have to take Steve as if they would want a scrawny ninety-pound asthmatic, too?  
  
Maybe Bucky was planning on leaving anyway. He already had a backpack that Steve assumed consisted of all his belongings – including his file – and there was nothing else of importance in the apartment, so maybe he had it planned.  
  
That begs the question – why the hell is Bucky set on DC? Sure, it's only more than a four-hour drive, but what's in DC that somehow advances his search for answers any more?  
  
Steve's eyes flicker over to Bucky's at the same time his own icy eyes glance over, and Steve lets out a heavy breath. He isn't _heaving_ , not like he was, but he's still trying to catch his breath and trying to be discrete about it. Bucky doesn't say anything, just slides his eyes back over to the road, fingers – both flesh and metal – gripping the wheel firmly.  
  
After that - once Steve has finally regained his composure - he sits rigidly with his knees to his chest, hugging them tightly and trying not to make a move that could get him killed. The asset is still very much _dangerous._ Steve eyes the glint of the metal arm in his peripheral.  
  
Any doubt that he may have had about Bucky not just being a normal guy was shattered when he saw the way he swiftly jumped over the railing and landed on his feet - smoothly, silently. Skillful. _Trained_. The way he knew what to do about the tear gas – the split second of realization as the canister rolled under the door. He was familiar with this.  
  
Finally, the car comes to a considerably slower speed than what Bucky had been going – almost as if he's trying to blend in. “We lost them,” Bucky says, gruff.  
  
Steve is silent for a moment but nods once anyway out of fear. Not of Bucky – not completely, but of the situation in general.  
  
He gathers up the courage to speak, anyway. “How do you know?” Steve can't help the doubt that creeps into his voice.  
  
Bucky stares ahead, his grip on the wheel tight and expert. He's a good driver, at least.  
  
“Why should I trust you?” Steve presses. Slowly, he's recollecting what's left of his balls, and what feels like the familiar righteous rage is bubbling up in his throat. He doesn't say it meekly like he's scared – no, he puts on a front, makes his voice thick with confrontation, stronger than he feels.  
  
Bucky breathes in through his nose and takes a left turn. “You said you would help me,” His voice is low and gravelly from disuse in the past twenty to thirty minutes.  
  
Steve suddenly sees red. “I didn't know it would constitute _this_. Not-”  
  
“Not _dying_?”  
  
Steve shuts up. He knows how badly that tear gas back there could have fucked him up – he knows he should be grateful Bucky even _took_ him without leaving him there, but that would be falling into the category of Stockholm, and Steve would fucking _never_. Steve had a right to live. Bucky _should_ have taken him, whether he technically saved his ass or not.  
  
But then Steve realizes that he only shut up because he didn't want to get choked again, and he thinks that maybe it _is_ the beginning of Stockholm. He's starting to feel grateful for the small, minuscule lengths Bucky goes to for him – grateful he's not dead yet even though Bucky _could_ kill him. By definition, that's it, right? Steve is fucked, right?  
  
Except it isn't like he's in _love_ with Bucky. He's just glad his captor hasn't murdered him in cold blood even when he's of no use to him. And, besides, don't victims of Stockholm usually _not_ know it themselves? Steve is still very much aware of his situation.  
  
He looks over at Bucky – his hair is stringy and hanging in his eyes, tickling at his jaw and chin, kinked in some places and perfectly straight in others. The street lights illuminate one side of his face every so often and the hint of regrowing stubble is prominent, as well as the knot tying his eyebrows together.  
  
Steve wonders how he looks – wonders what's going on back at his job. Not his job anymore, he has to remind himself. He probably lost that when he got himself kidnapped.  
  
And god, this is the most confusing situation he's ever been in ever, because he knows who Bucky is – factually – but doesn't know _what_ the fuck Bucky is. He repeatedly calls himself the asset, an asset for Hydra, Steve assumes, but what the hell Hydra is is beyond Steve. His mind wants to break under the pressure. It's easier to just go along with things, but then it's _not_. Steve isn't one to go without a fight, without understanding all points of a situation, and this is a situation he's perpetually blind to.  
  
He settles himself in further for the drive ahead and entertains himself with thoughts of escape – of getting out of this, somehow, maybe when they reach DC. Maybe he'll run for it when Bucky unlocks the doors. Maybe he'll scream for help, find the nearest payphone and– shit, he has no money– maybe he'd ask someone, anyone, to call the police – or maybe he'd lay low and find the nearest station. Maybe he'd get back his life, his shitty job, his shitty home - his shitty, shitty life.  
  
But when he looks at Bucky's hard jaw, the glint of the strong metal arm mocking his dreams of possibly escaping, and thinks of that file... He wonders, maybe, if he even wants it back.  
  
  


 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you all!


End file.
